Looking for a Rainbow

What is it about our depression that really affects us?  We live like Eeyore from The Many Adventures of Winnie the Pooh walking around with a dark rain cloud looming over us.  Suddenly, everything is seen in a shade of gray.  This feeling robs us of seeing color and emotion.  Happy yellow, bold red, somber blue, elegant purple, perky pink, unpredictable orange, wise green—they all turn into gray.  Simple gray with gray mid tones and no high lights or low lights.  Every situation for us is clouded and masked, like the looming clouds before and after a storm.  Where you can walk outside and feel the bitter cool wind whip against your skin.  But it’s a relief from the blazing heat, isn’t it?  Or in this mask of gray, is it simply another uncomfortable weather change?  Our dejection leads us there, standing on the front porch, clutching our crocheted sweaters against us and wondering when the rainbow will shine its merciful colors through the thick clouds.  We don’t need a dazzling show of bright colors, but simply a tiny peek of light.  Something other than gray to let us know hope is coming.  

The Photograph

Click

I am a hunter

I am a poacher

I am a captor

I am a kidnapper

Click

I am a thief

I have stolen

This landscape

This beauty

This creation

Click

These mountains

This river

Those trees

That person

Click

The emotions

I’ve stolen them too

Anger, sadness

Joy, frustration

Laugher, love

Click

It is mine

I am a thief

My camera is my weapon

I steal

But I leave everything behind

Just the way I found it

Click

Abracadabra

I don’t believe magic is casting spells or drinking potions.  It’s much more simplistic than that.  I believe “magic” is how people explain the unexplainable.  It is the first snow of the year, when the world seems to fall silent.  Or it is a new born baby’s first smile, or that ray of sun that shines through the living room window on Sunday afternoons, warming from the inside out.  This magic takes many forms.  It’s the subtle glow of fireflies that dot the summer night, the tingle and fright of first falling in love, or the sound of rain pattering on the tin roof, creating a stillness in the chaos.  Magic isn’t the leprechaun holding a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, but rather, the burst of color in the hazy, storm-torn sky.  Simplicity.  It cannot be explained by human terms.  Isn’t that what makes these things magical?

Allow Me to Rant

Kudos to the brave therapists who listen to problems all day, but my therapy today comes in a good, old-fashioned rant about my pet peeves, all of which I have experienced this week.           

            1.  When people are late.

This one just really pushes my buttons.  We said 7:00.  Do not show up at 7:15.  7:00 and 7:15 are not the same time, strangely enough.  It’s not a hard concept, essentially.  Just leave earlier.  I just love waiting in dark parking lots for late people.  Actually, I don’t.  I very much hate it.  So be on time.

            2.  When people text me to start a conversation, then reply about every ten minutes.

Really?  Yes, this happens to me quite often.  It isn’t brain surgery.  If you’re busy, don’t text me.  Are these tax dollars really going to education?

            3.  When people believe they are smarter than they actually are.

Welcome to my school.  I may be indirectly referring to a few choice people, and I am in fact aware that I do sound like a 13 year old girl’s twitter account but isn’t that the purpose of ranting?  People really need to get over themselves.  Ever heard of the sun?  The world revolves around it, not you.

            4.  Excessive cussing.

I am not preaching, just irked.  Wow, you look so tough dropping 27 F-bombs because you just stubbed your toe on the side of the desk.  I only wish I was as cool as you.  Marry me now?

            5.  Cocky guys.

You will never be as hot as Ryan Gosling.  Don’t even try.

We've Come a Long Way From Lunch Pails

Today, I opened my lunch sack to find a sandwich on white bread.  I detest white bread.  Call me a snob, but I only eat whole wheat bread.  This problem could have been overlooked if it had not been one of the many lunch blunders my mother has committed just this month.  One was packing me Cool Ranch Doritos which in response, I promptly sent her a picture of the unopened package as visual evidence of my distaste.  A couple of times, she has forgotten the flavor packet to my water bottle.  So guess what I got to drink?  Water.  Plain water.  Now why on earth would anyone want to drink that?  Recently, her blunders have been more excusable though.  For example, giving me Snickers instead of Twix.  I can cope with that, I suppose.  Except today I got no candy.  And white bread.  If this pattern of irresponsibility continues, I might have to start packing my own lunch.

Every Seven Years

Cells replace themselves every seven years.  Every seven years, I become a new person.  Well, same heart, same brain, same Rachel, just a new chapter of life.

Birth to age 7:  I moved to the family farm.  I watched very little television because I was always outside, imagining and creating new worlds.  Days were filled with my small elementary school down the road, playing Risk with my brothers, going on hikes, picnics, fishing, and catching fireflies. 

Age 7 to 14:  I lived in Waxahachie, Texas for 11 months.  I attended middle school.  Well, actually I attended four different schools in this time.  I grew up, and thought I had matured.  I found a love for books, performance arts, and school.  I made and lost friends, and began to experience the world of boy crushes and girl drama.

Age 14 to 21:  I’m still in this stage, realizing I’m not as mature as I once thought I was.  It’s been a period of firsts.  First real party, first friend fight, first job, first kiss, first car, first genuine “thank you” to my parents.  Hello high school, I can’t wait to meet you.  Goodbye high school, I can’t wait to leave you.  It’s time for college, and time to grow up.  Time to realize who I am.  Is it the future already?

Age 21 to 28:  Bring it on.  

Do Not Disturb

There are two types of people:  introverted and extroverted.  Extroverted get their energy from other people.  To do their best work, they must be around others.  Whether it’s finishing a paper at the library, reading the paper at Starbucks, or simply bird watching in the park, extroverted people blossom in the company of others.  Introverted people are quite different.  Their energy flows best when they are alone.  Sure, parties and friends are fun, but at the end of the day, you’ll find an introverted person alone, with ideas flowing.  They need alone time.  I am an introverted person.  Quoting C.S. Lewis, “You can never get a cup of tea large enough or a book long enough to suit me.”  Yes, I am a tea and coffee junkie, and yes, I love being alone.  Group projects annoy me; I work best on my own.  I’m a moody person and my friends can easily testify to that.  Sometimes, I just need a break from everything.  Nothing appeals to me more than sitting inside in front of my lap top or a book, exploring the world.  It’s my escape.  I am my on my own; I can do as I please.  Everyone needs time like this.  I could be for pleasure, to work, to hide, or simply to stay sane.  Oh, and a big cup of hot tea always helps too. 

If Walls Could Talk

Too many people focus on the new, shiny gadgets and skyscrapers.  But I love vintage things, antiques.  There’s a rich beauty in older things, they have a longer story to tell.  Whether it be good experiences or painful memories, older buildings, furniture, and even people are far more interesting.  They have witnessed the changing of the times; they possess a knowledge very few of us have.  I believe they have the greatest things to offer the world:  a story. 

I love downtowns.  It doesn’t matter the city, just give me a downtown so I can window shop and take pictures.  I feel empowered with my camera, like I am the interviewer, and I am able to capture just a moment of the stories downtown has to offer.  I went this weekend during the golden hour.  Taking the road less traveled by, I walked through alley ways and behind crumbling brick buildings.  The magic of vintage things comes in the wonder of it all, how so many broken stories are left up to the imagination.  It’s beautiful, really.  And you can find it in the most unusual places. 

My photography project.  Our foundation. 

Fashionista?

My mother owns the ugliest outfit on the planet.  Once worn with pride in the heat of the 1990s, it now suffices as her “painting suit.”  Its blue, matching blue.  Yes, it is a shirt and shorts combination.  The shorts rest on her knees but the elastic waist hugs above her hips.  The shirt, which completes the blue ensemble, is distinguished by the glaring shoulder pads.  I simply cannot bring myself to imagine a time in which wearing such an outfit would be considered acceptable, especially not fashionable.  She laughs whenever I grimace at the sight of it.  

When I was younger, I was going through a scrapbook of my dad’s early years.  I screamed at one photo of him at a piano recital.  To my horror, he donned a powder blue tuxedo, complete with ruffles and a bow tie.  My mother laughs as she describes her electric yellow jumpsuit and high waisted, oversized bell bottoms.  Surely my parents were never cool, especially sporting those outfits.  

But adults all around me laugh at the style phases I go through.  In sixth grade, gaucho pants were all the rage.  My friends had some in every color.  I begged my mom to buy me some, and laughing, she agreed.  Little did I know that these flowy pants were making a second appearance.  In eighth grade, I went through a head band phase.  Flowers, sequins, beads, and a rainbow of colors, I wanted them all.  Again, my mother laughed as I strutted around, just like an 80s girl.  And more recently, I spotted the perfect pair of sunglasses at the mall.  Who doesn’t want a fancy pair of Ray-Bans?  I had no idea why my mother was rolling her eyes while I was trying to explain what these  “new” sunglasses looked like.

Styles come and go.  Recently, the hair poofs, leggings, and electric colors of the eighties are making their big comeback.  Converse have become a must have for boys and girls alike.  In this fast pace world, style is one of the many things rapidly evolving.  Must have fashion fads can become out of style in the blink of an eye.  I laugh now at my mother’s horrific painting outfit now.  But I bet my daughter will do the exact same thing to me.  Maybe by her time, shoulder pads will be back.  Let’s hope not.

Welcome to Mayflower

  From my house to Benton is between 45 minutes and an hour.  My family makes this drive often, about once a month.  My dad grew up in Benton, and my grandparents still live there.  It’s interesting though.  The drive up there, I am relaxed and content.  I lean my seat back and lose myself in sleeping, listening to music, or writing.  The way back from Benton is the same routine.  Until we reach Mayflower.  Mayflower is only about fifteen minutes from my house.  As soon as our car passes the “Welcome to Mayflower” sign, I sit up, more alert.  My ipod goes off and I close my lap top.  I loosen my seatbelt and sit up.  I’m still fifteen minutes away from home, but I know I’m really close.  This realization begins to set in and soon home is all I focus on.  I become restless and I realize how achy my legs are from not moving.  I want nothing more than to get out of the car and run through my yard, free.  As I draw nearer to my house, it is all I can think about.  I begin to plan out what I will do when I get home.  What will I eat?  Will I go outside and play with my dog?  Or will I stay inside and clean my room or watch television?  The road becomes so familiar, I can trace it with closed eyes.  Home.  I’m almost there. 

The funny thing is, however, that I could be coming from visiting my grandparents in Benton or returning from a week long vacation in Florida.  But no matter what, I always begin to get restless in Mayflower.  I believe this is the same with many other aspects of life.  

Senioritis, as it is commonly called, affects even the most driven students.  It comes towards the end of senior year, boarding Spring Break and graduation.  It seems that students have spent so much time in one place, one institution, one lifestyle.  And, almost like seeing the light at the end of the tunnel, they begin to stir.  Many lose focus of school work and grades begin to drop.  The appearance of students change too.  Sweat pants and t shirts replace jeans and blouses.  Ponytails replace straightened or curled hair and girls’ faces lose their make up.  The school hallways are alive with the energy for the future, yet dead from the lack of motivation to complete anything.  Behavioral problems go up, and the number of drop outs dramatically increase.  The students are at Mayflower.  
For some, it has been a ten hour drive from Florida.  And for others, a 45 minute drive from Benton.  But either way, they know home is near.  Freedom is near.  What many forget is that even at Mayflower, the end of the year, there is still fifteen minutes left and there is still school left to be completed.  Regaining the motivation to succeed is a very difficult aspect.  You can still have a wreck in those 15 minutes.  And you can still change your future in those short months.  Nearing the end of my senior year, I rejoice in the sighting of Mayflower, yet keep driving to finish strong.

Just Keep Swimming

The first time I jumped off a start block into a swimming pool, I belly flopped.  Hard.  I believe Moby Dick could have had a more graceful dive.  Now in my defense, growing up, I had never officially been taught how to dive.  I just jumped in to every pool feet first.  So when I took up competitive swimming, the concept of entering the water head first concerned me.  I remember plainly standing on the deck listening to my coach tell me to “just jump and the rest will follow.”  Needless to say, the rest did not follow.  The rest spread out like a parachute yet had quite the opposite effect.  I slapped the water so hard, two guys jumped in after me to make sure I didn’t break anything.  I painfully pulled myself out of the water and lay strewn across the deck, red from the neck down.  I stared up at my coach and listened to the stifled giggles of my team mates behind me.  “Now that wasn’t right at all,” she said.  “Try it again!”  Thank you for the brilliant insight, coach.  It was going to be a long year.

            In my life, I have been faced with many obstacles.  But giving up has never helped me overcome any of them. Determination is a funny thing.  The definition for determination is pressing on even when things are tough.  The motivation behind pressing on for each person cannot, however, be found in a dictionary.  Some are determined for others; they feel the need to fulfill a promise or help someone out.  And some are determined simply because they know they can succeed.  There is a spark of determination in all of us.  For the student, it is determination to pass a test with a good grade.  For the worker, it is determination to finish the paper work and complete the report.  For the parent, it is determination to raise a child on good moral standards, and always protect and provide.  Every person has determination.  It is the toddler proclaiming, “I do it myself!” as he struggles to reach the top shelf.  It is also the dying woman, shaking as she pens her memoir, before her story fades from memory.  

            “Faith, trust, and pixie dust” is what made the Darling children fly to Never Never Land.  No matter what trials, heartache, or humiliation we face, we all have a spark of determination to finish the race and win the prize.  Whether it is for the exercise of running, the pride in finishing, or the shine of the medal, we all are determined.  My determination came in staying after countless practices; diving over kick boards, pipes, and people, banging my leg on the sides of the pool, and coming up to the surface with water clogged ears and nose.  But I was determined to dive like a swan off that start block.  Today, I may more accurately resemble a duck, but I know how it’s done.  In fact, last practice, a new swimmer flopped into the pool and came up frustrated.  “Hey Rach, why don’t you go help her out?” My coach laughed.  Sure thing.  

Blue, white: You know!

Hail to the blue and white

In all its radiant splendor

Hail to the school we love

Our hearts to thee we render

Praise and honor, true devotion

Each we give with deep emotion

Ever of our lives a portion

Alma Mater Hail!

Well, this is it.  Senior homecoming.  Where the pride of being a Wampus Cat can show shamelessly.  Since the old school is being torn down at the end of this year, the 2011 homecoming theme was “kickin it old school.”  To be honest, I did roll my eyes a little when the phrase was first mentioned.  Just another group of old teachers thinking they understand the lingo the kids are all saying these days.  But then I started thinking. 

The unique pods of our school, which have stood since 1969 are now coming down.  A new school is being erected in front.  The new building is a massive three story red brick, and completely run on current technology.  An AT&T tower is even being built out back for easier wifi access.  The establishment out front seems to very well overshadow the brown alien like pods behind it.  But does it actually?  Well, the white walls have been stained a yellow gray color and the ceiling tiles are flaking apart.  The wooden lockers squeak on their hinges and the discolored floor tiles are crumbling.  The locks on the bathroom doors have long rusted away and the students have now gotten used to the dimmed florescent lights and strange odor coming from the walls. 

But the hallways are still alive with Wampus Cat spirit just as they have been for 40 years.  The sharpie signatures and engraved illustrations in the locker doors give identity to the long lost graduates of Conway High.  The pictures of past homecoming queens lining the attendance office show the four decades of Conway’s beauty and grace.  While the old gym lacks air conditioning and proper sanitation, the trophy cases and record boards come alive with the accomplishments of the past Conway athletes.  What many think is just a hollow part of the floor in the library is actually covering the famous pit where hundreds of students relaxed and read.  Generations of Conway children, parents, and even grandparents have learned in the same classrooms. 

Over the years, walls between classrooms, coverings over the sidewalks, and even two more buildings have been built.  The old school has listened to the Beatles and Jimi Hendrix and saw the counterculture movement of the sixties and seventies.  It witnessed the big hair and neon colors of the eighties and listened to boy bands and watched the grunge look and white keds grace the halls of the nineties.  Recently, it has witnessed the birth of gangster rap and the innovation of cell phones and ipods.  However, the changing of the times has not bruised the pride of the blue and white.  Every home football game, John McConnell Stadium seats fill up with fans of all nature, many being Conway High alumni.  Graduation after graduation has occurred from CHS and the old school has seen it all.

But now the building has run its course and a new one is taking its place.  At the end of this year, bull dozers and wrecking balls will dismantle the building and make room for something newer.  But for this year, the old Conway High School still stands proud and if you walk the halls alone and listen really closely, you can almost hear the deafening roar of the mighty Wampus Cat.  

His Truck

The sticky summer air had a cool breeze that morning.  It rustled the leaves of the persimmon tree offered a sweet relief to the endless humidity.  I hugged the base of the basketball goal; one day I was going to climb the thick metal base to the top, but at the time, my feet were too sweaty and I was enjoying the change in weather.  “Hop in the truck!”  I looked up to see mom and daddy walking out of the garage carrying the red cooler.  My brothers and I scrambled to my dad’s green Ford pickup.  We barrel rolled into the big cab and held on as daddy started the sputtering engine.  The truck drove out of the metal gate at the end of our driveway and followed the gravel road up towards the woods.  We were going to the farm.  My dog ran along beside us and I reached down many times to pet him.  We stopped at a clearing lined with hay bales.  Mom sat in the back of the truck and dad raced my brothers and me to jump the hay bales.  I only fell once.

“Princess,” daddy said, “You wanna help me take Moses to the vet today?”  I jumped with excitement, for I always loved to take Moses places.  The big dog’s gentle composure and fluffy white fur drew crowds to pet and compliment him.  I was the proud owner, who would always sit by my daddy nodding and smiling, because after all, he was my dog.  But the reward of attention at the vet’s office was hardly worth the uncomfortable ride there.  Daddy knew Moses would jump out of the back of the truck, so he cleared away the jumper cables and tow ropes and folded down the back seat.  He then tossed a couple of dog biscuits back there and stepped away as the massive dog leaped in.  Daddy grabbed a leash and slid into the driver’s seat.  I buckled up next to him and looked up at Moses’ head leaned over mine.  He was a sweet dog, but drooled when he got nervous.  And the veterinarian’s clinic was over an hour away.  I prayed the whole way the steady stream of slobber oozing down my neck would halt but it didn’t until we had pulled into the parking lot and the back of my gray t shirt was slimy and wet.

I sat cross legged in the back of the old truck with my mom listening to the booming sound of the Country Club’s fireworks display from across the valley.  Every once in awhile, I’d see a spray of colorful sparks emerge over the black line of trees.  Dad and Adam were leaning down at the foot of the driveway, lighting a bottle rocket.  It sat in a brick stolen from the side of the house:  a home-made fix for lack of a proper firework base.  I covered my ears like I did every year no matter how old I got, and watched my brothers retreat as the firework shot up into the night sky and exploded.  I had my camera ready but barely missed the big explosion.  I leaned back on the spare tire and listened to the rhythmic sound of crackling and booming from all around the valley.  I pulled at a weed growing from under the mat in the cab.  Mom always joked that dad had a greener thumb than she did because he could grow a garden in the back of his truck.  Sometimes the plants would rise to the back window before one of us would yank them out of the dirt and shale.  Another firework exploded over my head.  I knew it had been a screaming dragon based on the obnoxious screech it made as it elevated into the sky.  

“Just one drive down the road,” David had said.  I hesitated, but climbed in the back of the truck any way.  David took his place in the driver’s seat and checked the mirrors, just like the driving manual had instructed. With an uneasy lurch, we rolled down the driveway and onto the road.  The speed increased and so did my grip on the edge.  The wind blew my hair and I shut my eyes.  No way was I ever letting him drive my car.   “David, no!”  I yelled too late as the truck flew around the curve, throwing me across the back.  One abrupt stop later, and he jumped out of the cab.  “How’d I do?” he asked eagerly.  “Slow down!”  I screamed at him and hopped over the edge onto the safety of unmoving grass.  

It seems that no matter how old we get, or how much we think we know, there is always something that draws us back.  Rather it is a decorative music box, an overstuffed chair, or a green pickup truck, it reminds us of home and life just isn’t right without it.  We can gain all the knowledge in the world, but for our own world to be complete, we have to have that special something.  Good or bad, it defines us, and makes us a symbol of who we were and maybe even who we will become.  

For me, it is my dad’s blue 1995 Ford 1-50 and if he sold it, I know I’d cry.  The doors rattle and the windows must be cranked down manually.  Jagged cracks run across the dashboard and the engine still makes a funny noise starting up.  Every pot hole sends the driver and passenger through the roof and the seats are stained from years of spilled gas station coke slushies.  But its sound and its smell bring me home.  The cloth seats and dents on the fender remind me of who I am and where I came from.  From the sunflower seeds packages under the seat, to the old baseballs rolling around in the back, I am reminded of everything my dad is and stands for.  

What is it about these treasures that make us so attached?  Is it a fond memory or a string of memories, good and bad, associated with that object?  Or is it simply the only constant entity in our ever changing lives?  These things keep us grounded and protected from our evolving world.  We all yearn for some form of a safety net and maybe these precious objects can provide just that.

I remember loading up the back with catcher’s equipment and baseball bats then riding to spend hours at the baseball park, devouring blue snow cones and famous Stormy burgers.  I remember riding in the back home from Mimi’s house and reaching out to grab leaves from the trees we whizzed past.  No matter where I go or where I’ve been, I can always come home to my dad’s truck parked at the end of the driveway.  It symbolizes my family, because we are Fords we are built Ford tough.  

Courage

"You have plenty of courage, I am sure," answered Oz. "All you need is confidence in yourself. There is no living thing that is not afraid when it faces danger. The true courage is in facing danger when you are afraid, and that kind of courage you have in plenty."  -The Wizard, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz

Many believe and are taught that courage is the complete absence of fear.  That standing unafraid is the definition of courage.  Many think that courage is the giggling teenager, skipping through the neighborhood haunted house, only to pass paint splattered, plastic chainsaws and cheaply costumed characters.  But in fact, courage is simply the fourth grade boy scout, tip toeing into the dark woods, shaking, but knowing the fate of the campfire depends on what fallen branches he can gather.

Courage is not the absence of fear, but actually the presence of fear.  Fear nurtures and gives birth to great courage.  Courage is formed in the depth of our greatest terrors and insecurities.  It is the motivation to press on despite timidity.  This courage is made when we finally understand the value of something bigger than fear.  Something bigger than ourselves.

Courage is found in the wounded soldier, bloodied and broken, knowing his time is limited, yet continues to reload his gun until he sees the flag of his country flying among the smoke and gun fire.  Courage is also found in the young reporter, successful yet daring, who knows his latest article may jeopardize his job, yet publishes it anyway, finally enlightening the public with the truth.  It is the high school senior, who knows her pregnancy will cost her the dignity, reputation, friends, and scholarship she worked so hard to maintain, yet decides to have and raise the child.  Courage comes in many forms.

I have seen courage displayed in the most unusual ways lately.  Many times, courage is forced upon us.  For me, it is the realization that in a few short months, I will have to leave behind my family, friends, and home and embark upon a new life.  I must be educated without the censorship of others and I must find my place in the world.  I am scared to be alone.  I am scared to not have a safety net.  But I know that college will shape me and form me into who I will become.  And I know that is well worth the risk.